


The Call

by EverythingHurtsAndImDying



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst, Blacklist-esque sorta vibe, Chuck Shurley is Not God, Creepy!Lucifer, Dubious Consent, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behaviour, Serial Killer!Lucifer, Slow Burn, other characters to be added - Freeform, possessive!lucifer, student!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingHurtsAndImDying/pseuds/EverythingHurtsAndImDying
Summary: "You're sick Nic- Lucifer." He inwardly exhaled with relief, deciding now was the time to appeal to the serial killer, "You're sick and you need help. They can help you." He didn't know why he separated himself from the FBI and suddenly felt the need to correct his mistake. "I can help you." His voice strained under his false sincerity and the jolt in his stomach was an indication he had regretted his choice of wording. It was also painfully cliché but Sam forgave himself; only a few hours ago, he had been scrubbing a questionable substance off a rickety table and now he found himself talking on the phone to a murderer who had avoided the Law for years only to reveal himself for Sam.There's a pause, short but significant before Lucifer lets out another sharp chuckle, this time his voice his intermingled with humour and a different emotion - one much harder to read. Pity alongside a sense of purpose, maybe but Sam wouldn’t think too hard about that."I will be the one to help you, Sam."





	1. Chapter One: The First Call

**Author's Note:**

> Well, Hellatus begins. This is my first full one too. So this is going to be my project to try and fill the gaping hole that season 12 (cUrSE yoU mARy WinCHESteR) left while I wait for season 13
> 
> Additional tags and characters are to be added as the story progresses but bare in mind that this is a serial killer AU.. Don't expect sunshine and rainbows.
> 
> EDIT: As of 16/12, the tense changes in the second part should all be fixed.  
> Ha, look at that note... I was so naive.

~~**\--------------** ~~

_On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat_

_to the wolf with the red roses?_

~~**\--------------** ~~

 

"Sam." The voice purred down the phone, across Sam's shaking arm and traced down his spine, allowing electric shivers to spread out across his back like a lone stoic tree branching out in a barren field. He'd never get used to that voice. The desire entwined in his name and the way it shot down his back and left a cold hard feeling of dread in the guise of pure sickness. Heat rose to his head, dizziness spilling over him as he tried to keep the little breakfast he had down; able to use the harshly cold metal table as an anchor. His eyes darted around the chilling metal box to the generic Men in Black looking agents, he must have looked like a cat backed against a wall, peering around desperately for an escape. The room, that suddenly felt far too small for comfort, had only one window - a small rectangle tucked up in the centre of the wall facing opposite Sam. It showed nothing but a steady reflection of the artificial fluorescent light that hovered over him, revealing the beads of sweat crawling down his inhumanly pale skin.   

  

He had to respond. His brain was pounding as he came to realise that his current response was violently trembling breath and with that realisation, another one dawned. When it had been requested that Sam holds the small disposable phone to his ear - despite the fact that the phone was hooked to a sophisticated long black wire that allowed everyone outside the room to hear the conversation - he hadn't been able to figure out why but now it was incontestably clear. The caller wanted to hear the fear in his voice. Hell, he'd demanded it. And that's why, after a sharp inhale, the caller received his response.  

  

"Nick." Sam had barely whispered; his mouth drier than the Sahara Desert. His stomach dropped to the core of the earth at the pathetic murmur that had escaped the lips his teeth now ground against. Without context, this was just a call between two strangers and shouldn't be disturbing him the way it did but, with context, Sam gave himself every right to be petrified and on the verge of unconsciousness. Still, his hard-as-nails brother had taught him to lock his emotions away in times of distress and focus on the logic... But how could he focus on logic when there was no logic to focus on? Sam found wisps of regret amongst the mess of the situation in which he was searching for logic, the regret of leaving Dean and his bastard of a father behind for his education. God knew he needed Dean right then.     

  

Surprisingly, Sam was easily distracted by the fond memories of his older brother his brain had delivered to him to ease the battle in his stomach. He actually started to feel marginally better until a sharp click of a tongue between teeth broke the silence. Down goes his stomach.    

  

"Tsk tsk, Sammy." His voice had added a hint of amusement in it now, amongst the list of emotions that Sam didn't want to think about. It would have been interesting to Sam, how many emotions seemed to be packed into that alarmingly charming delivery but, with being on the direct receiving end, it only seemed to arouse the timidity welded inside him. "I'm sure you've been told how to address me." A demand hidden in honeyed words and Sam knew it - why was this literal mass murderer trying to be polite to him?   

  

He also knew what was being inferred. After being 'escorted' from his day shift at the dingy bar he'd been working at for the past year, he'd been shoved into a shady looking van, black with tinted windows, and smothered with a rushed debriefing as they made their way to a makeshift black site. The FBI had received a call by a notorious (understatement of the century) serial killer who'd been taunting them for years with bodies of all varieties, all with a simple three-pronged trident etched onto some part of their bodies. The killer had promised to offer them hints to where the next victim would be found, possibly before she died, in return for one thing. Sam. Or more so, a phone call with Sam. And the guy had a complex - an Archangel complex. No one could seem to discover where the idea came from but the press, by the time it seemed Nick would be making regular appearances on American television, had aptly named him the Devil. And it wasn't far from the truth, it seemed Nick had no penchant for any particular type of person but rather for humans as a whole. Apparently, he deemed the name worthy of himself (or he deemed himself worthy of the name, one can never be too sure) and Nick Milton transformed into Lucifer. Furthermore, he demanded that the FBI ask Sam to call him Lucifer.  _Ask_. 

  

Apparently, the FBI had it on some wondrously good authority to believe him and that's how Sam found himself in the metal box, heart threatening to jump out his throat at any moment.    

  

He licked his lips as he recalled what he had been told. He filtered through the facts, warnings of manipulation and the demands to keep the conversation going as long as possible to track the phone he'd be calling from. After a moment, he found it and evoked a man's voice instructing him on the one thing that the killer had sought from Sam, other than his presence at the call. This was going to be harder to say than the first word he had uttered but this time, the initial shock had retired from his body and now he was left in the company of apprehension. There was a long pause as the name reared at his tongue.    

  

"Lucifer." Sam couldn't deny the slight sense of relief that washed over him as the blasphemous word fled from his mouth in a more composed way than previously. He was about as far from calm as the sun was from Earth but it seemed that he had become numb to the whole situation, only able to focus on the contagious steady breathing of his caller. Well, he had felt slightly numb until...   

  

"Good boy, Sammy."    

  

He almost gagged. The sickening praise sounded so sincere and anyone could practically hear the curl of Lucifer's lips. That numbness had been annihilated with a hitched breath caught in Sam's throat. There was a lot to process and analyse but it seemed that his confederate had picked up on his vexation as the silence between them was swiftly filled with a placid voice that was disturbingly soothing.    

  

"It really is a pleasure to finally hear your voice." Lucifer spoke with alluring charm, "I've been waiting for this moment for a long time." There was so much foreboding intent that Sam forced himself to ignore as his stomach made a third trip down to the centre of the Earth. Filled to the brim with trepidation, he found himself lost for words. Questions were abundant but he could not have vocalised a single one in that moment if asked. Instead, he candidly gulped louder than he had meant to. Loud enough, in fact, to instigate a sharp chuckle from the phone. Laughs and smiles were supposed to fill one with a sense of joy and compassion but Sam found himself fraught with anxiety at the impossibly human yet inhuman response. Lucifer, who had been frighteningly patient, was the one to initiate the conversation again.    

  

"We have much to discuss," He did not try to hide the joy in his voice, "But I do not wish to tarnish our first meeting with business." His voice had returned the dulcet tone of before. "I will call again tomorrow, at the exact same time as today and if you so choose to answer, I will indulge into the whereabouts of the missing girl."   

  

Three things occurred to Sam after the brief statement that sparkled with the slightest hint of hope. Firstly, unlike the FBI, Sam was offered a choice by Lucifer. He knew it wasn't really an offer as much as a politeness strategy; the FBI had seemed pretty excited to be extended a hint but it couldn't go unnoticed - unacknowledged yes but not unnoticed. Secondly, a harsh reality clouded his conscious. There was a poor and innocent girl's life on the line at this very moment and every decision Sam made would affect the outcome - therefore whether she would live or die. Sam didn't know the girl, she was some college kid from Oregon who had moved away to start a new life; Sam could relate. A life that she may never be able to experience. That weighed heavy on his tired shoulders. Finally, it registered in Sam that Lucifer now intended to hang up. With no inkling whether or not he had bartered enough time to track the phone; the two agents had been all but useless, simply staring intently at the phone, unable to hear what was being said by Lucifer, Sam panicked.   

  

"No, wait!" He called out with a mixture of desperation and alarm.    

  

Astonishingly, the steady breath that had begun to fade away returned. Sam let a small sigh of relief escape from his throat. Wait...  _Shit_. He hadn't thought this far. What was he supposed to say to someone who spent their past time flaying men and drowning babies? Panic flushed through his body as he struggled to find anything to keep Lucifer's attention.   

  

"You're sick Nic- Lucifer." He inwardly exhaled with relief, deciding now was the time to appeal to the serial killer, "You're sick and you need help. They can help you." He didn't know why he separated himself from the FBI and suddenly felt the need to correct his mistake. "I can help you." His voice strained under his false sincerity and the jolt in his stomach was an indication he had regretted his choice of wording. It was also painfully cliché but Sam forgave himself; only a few hours ago, he had been scrubbing a questionable substance off a rickety table and now he found himself talking on the phone to a murderer who had avoided the Law for years only to reveal himself for Sam.   

  

There's a pause, short but significant before Lucifer let out another sharp chuckle, this time his voice his intermingled with humour and a different emotion - one much harder to read. Pity alongside a sense of purpose, maybe but Sam wouldn’t think too hard about that.   

  

"I will be the one to help you, Sam."   

  

The phone went silent.    

  

 _Fuck that_. Bile erupted into Sam's throat and white spread across his hand as he gripped the cold metal table like a vice and swallowed roughly. He sat like that for what felt like an eternity, trying to stop himself from curling in on himself till he simply stopped existing until he felt a hand gently on his shoulder. He jumped out of his skin, spinning around with such force that the chair skidded across the floor and tensed his body for battle. What stood before him made him relax - only slightly. A young man with a scruffy brown beard and matching hair lingered below him, wearing a plain white shirt with a red hoodie and scuffed blue jeans with black converse. He was accompanied by the stench of cheap whiskey and a sympathetic look, wearing a tight-lipped - but genuine - smile.   

  

They remained like that for a few seconds while Sam forced himself to relax, at least look less like a distressed moose. Then, slowly, the guy before him introduced himself softly. "Hey man, I'm Chuck." He stuck a hand out and Sam accepted it hesitantly, trying to regain some of his lost dignity by dominating the handshake.    

  

"Sam." He breathed out in response, the once restless feeling of nausea now solidified in his stomach.   

  

Chuck didn't challenge him in the handshake but instead continued, "It's a pleasure to meet you Sam, even in this unfortunate circumstance." He shuffled and Sam grimaced, trying – but failing – to not judge the guy for his sporadic stutters. "I'm gonna be your advisor during this... Situation." Sam blinked at him, he didn't look like an advisor or anyone with any kind of degree, more like a wayward musician or library assistant. The guy practically emitted nervousness. "I'll be there at every phone call to help you keep him on the line while we track the bastard." That was unprofessional but Sam only chuckled lightly in agreement though there was no humour in his voice.   

  

Sam uttered something that bordered on a thanks but the silence that followed thereafter was swiftly interrupted a pair of debonair suits that ushered him back into his seat and spread official documents across the reflective table.    

   

   

 **\--------------**  

   

   

Sam, in spite of the vindictive glare of agents and lawyers alike (not like he could tell the difference), utilised his recently attained legal skills when he had been forced to sign seemingly endless streams of documents, all of them equally as dubious and vague as the others. From what he could distinguish amongst the legal terms and purposely ambiguous statements, the FBI wished to tear him from all his routine and impeccably normal life in favour of using him as a tool to bring in the self-proclaimed Devil. And what the FBI wants, the FBI gets. Sam, with deliberate nonchalance, signed the papers that declared that, for an indefinite period of time, Sam Winchester belonged to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.    

  

It was almost midnight when the wind licked across his face, leaving a chilled trail of goosebumps, leaving his cheeks tinted and his hair, an accurate summary of his mind, a mess. As a result of the day's events, Sam had been escorted in another tinted-windowed car to an apartment complex. The complex was open for anyone to rent an apartment but the FBI had rented out one especially for Sam, after deeming his own tiny flat unsafe; they didn't know what Lucifer knew and what he did not. It was supposed to seem less conspicuous and like less of an obvious choice, so the serial killer would never think to look for him there, but it just left Sam feeling open to attack and disconcertingly vulnerable. The steady rumble of the car came to a halt as Generic Bodyguard #11 and an unsurprisingly quiet Chuck stepped out. Stumbled was more appropriate for his new advisor.   

  

A thick blanket of dusk had settled across the landscape, only a lamppost a few paces away illuminating the dimmed street and Sam could only make out the shape of a building with the assistance of a few glowing windows. Sam was tall but this building seemed to tower above him, his sudden requirement to move houses reminding him of when his father had dragged his brother and himself across the country. Sam would have done anything for the contradictory but familiar uncomfortable comfortableness of a motel bed, the sound of his father snoring and his brother shifting in his bed being one of the few comforts of his childhood he could remember.    

  

The besuited buff bodyguard escorted the two men all the way up to Sam's new home on the 3rd floor. Sam had paid little heed to lobby or even the corridor, noting only the worn and stained red carpet and the walls of the cramped elevator, greased with handprints on a once polished silver surface. He had kept his head down the entire walk to the door, raising it only once in the elevator to give Chuck something akin to a reassuring smile. Chuck had returned the favour but it was clear neither of them felt the effects of the action. The tension lay thick in the air, broken only when the bodyguard cleared his throat and held out a small silver key. "This is yours, it works for this room and all the windows inside – I suggest you keep those locked. Keep the key on your person at all times and report to an agent immediately if it ever goes missing." Imperative after imperative flowed out of the man's voice, no emotion leaking through. "There are agents stationed in the room next door, if you are ever in danger, they are only a shout away." Sam could only accept the key and nod shyly whilst unable to hold the patronising gaze of the guard. Doors locked, windows locked, people next door ready to fly in? He was starting to feel less like a citizen and more like a prisoner; an overwhelming need for personal space kneading down on him.    

  

The guard, seemingly satisfied with his response, grunted with a nod and began to march away, not before telling Chuck that he would be ready to take him home whenever; the impatient tone echoing through the hall told a different story. After a questioning look at his acquaintance and an encouraging nod in return, Sam awkwardly shoved the key into the door, twisting the key with a satisfying clunk and pushed it open. Before his eyes was an open plan apartment: the kitchen and living room were simplistic and an obvious theme of red and black painted the area; a cream couch with red pillows was separated from a flat screen TV by a small black coffee table that stood on top of a fluffy cream rug – the rest of the floor being white oak panels. A couple of bare bookshelves rest against the pale walls of the square shaped room, a fine layer of dust suggesting that they have been neglected for some time along with a painting. Upon closer inspection and much to his dismay, Sam discovered the painting is a copy of Gustave Doré's 'Satan' neatly tucked in a simple red frame. It seemed that Chuck has also stopped inspecting the generic breakfast bar with the same colour scheme in favour of staring at the painting in disbelief. While Sam cursed God for the sickening irony, the timid advisor shuffled toward the painting, taking the frame down and flipping it to face the wall before cautiously resting it against the wall. "That's inappropriate." He chuckled dryly between his stutters, "I'll get someone to take out the picture in the morning when they bring all your stuff from your old apartment."    

  

Sam showed his gratitude by nodding at Chuck while he slid back towards the door with some offhand comment about how nice the place looks. He was too unnerved by the painting, just after getting some kind of grip on normality, and would have much preferred to just sleep. The advisor seemed to pick up on Sam's mood, offering him a short goodbye and a promise to 'talk properly tomorrow' before he scuttled out of the apartment, leaving behind only the gentle slam of the door.    

  

On instinct, Sam slid over to lock the door – not without checking it was locked more than a few times then what would be deemed socially acceptable – before he stumbled about his new apartment. Accidentally, he found a pristine but small looking bathroom that hosted a frameless glass shower tucked into a corner while a counter of marble accommodated a porcelain sink. The counter was bare and Sam grumbled to himself at the thought that he would have to fill this foreign place with his own belongings, furthermore ousting his life of any normalcy. Pushing his lament aside, he slid his hand across the cool surface of the counter before twisting the cold tap. He loomed over the gushing water, watching it with great intensity as he focuses on his breathing while the sound of water spraying masked his breathing exercises. Clammy hands dipped into the waterfall, they remain there for an abridged moment, as if the body controlling them was struggling to function, and then they curved upwards and cupped cool water that trickled between the ridges of his fingers and splashed over the edge of his pale hands. The crisp bite of the water against his flushed cheeks was anticipated and an easing shock that caused a sob to escape his dripping lips.    

  

Sam reached for a towel hanging from a bannister near the shower, the rough material against his face is a welcomed experience. He threw the towel aside then looked at the face staring with empty eyes at him. Notwithstanding his inner turmoil, the face that reflected in the spotless mirror looked healthy; hazy hazel eyes traced a clean shaven and well-defined jawline. Dark circles settled on the tanned skin under his eyes but nothing too concerning, he was a Stanford law student in his 3rd year after all. But the whole ordeal had left Sam with a crawling feeling under his skin, something he was accustomed to but not had to challenge since he divorced himself from his abusive father. He felt like something was missing like there was some gaping hole in his very being. Sam always felt different. Out of place in his family, regardless of his brother and his surrogate father's endless support – like a wolf whelp amongst puppies. He had that feeling then, as he stood in the drafty bathroom, it prodding and squirming in his mind.   

  

 _Different. Corrupt. Not like everybody else. Impure._   

  

With a shake of his head, he quashed the thoughts and dragged himself to the next door, just opposite the bathroom door and tugged it open, pulling himself inside. He was so tired; his limbs were tired, his mind was tired and he could barely keep his eyes open despite the settling sickness in the pit of his stomach. Something about the apartment didn't feel right and his instincts had screamed at him to investigate but Sam couldn't find it in himself to give a damn.    

  

There was no light on in this room until his hand groped at the wall and he promptly discovered a light switch and one swift movement later, artificial light poured into the room. Sam's eyelids were drooping as the harsh lighting revealed an insipid repeat of the colour scheme visible in the living room and kitchen. A wooden bedside table with a solitary black lamp was located next to a double bed layered with plain white sheets and pillows that have a few faded thick red lines across near the bottom of the sheets. There was also a wooden desk inserted into a corner with another desk lamp and a banquet of documents blanketing every inch of the desk. That provoked an exasperated huff from Sam, knowing he had to thoroughly read and scrawl his signature on them all, and he flicked the light off so only the outline of a double bed could be made out and that was enough for him to toe off his shoes before collapsing on the surprisingly comfortable mattress. It seemed the idea of shedding his clothes was too big of a task for his drained brain, so Sam simply wriggled his way under the duvet with a shirt, jeans and socks still in place and embraced the peace that sleep offers to him.    

  

On that night sleep eluded Sam like the memories of a dream and he found very little peace in sleep; sleep had never really been an issue with him since his departure from Kansas and his dysfunctional family. But then, any pitiful attempts he made at letting his consciousness rest are brutally interrupted by his heart rate increasing sporadically. He convulsed on the unfamiliar bed, wrestling with the duvet like it was purposely offending him then clinging to it like it was the only protection he had against the hands that stretch from the dark. He grunted low in his throat as beads of sweat form at his brow and plaster his lengthy locks to his pale forehead while sounds of a telephone ringing in his dreams and a tender saccharine voice cooed subtle nondescript remarks.   

  

And in that darkness, unbeknownst to both Sam and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the muted whir of unsanctioned cameras permeated the tranquil silence of the apartment.  


	2. Chapter Two: The First Victim (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my dAD.
> 
> It's been way too long, I apologise sincerely.
> 
> I'm going to finish this story if it kills me and, if you choose to come along on my descent into madness, I super appreciate it! :) 
> 
> Much love to NotMarySue for last minute beta'ing and staying awake for me <3

**\--------------**

_Will he offer me his mouth?_  

 _Yes._  

 **\--------------**  

 

Sam was unwelcomely awoken by the sound of a telephone ringing, the classic sounding ringing; the one the killer used. Adrenaline pumped through his body as he pushed himself up and off the bed fast enough to get whiplash. His body prepared for fight or flight – probably flight – until the hazel eyes scanned the room and realisation hardened in his mind that he was in no immediate danger. Tired eyes fell on to a primitive black cellphone. It shook and danced around the room as its noises filled the once tense atmosphere.  

 

With a groan that one could relate to the phone or the mass of papers underneath the phone that the brunet realised he still had to sign, large arms reached outward from the safety and comfort of the bed and its surrounding area, despite the fact he was already standing up. After a reluctant shuffle forward, Sam snatched the phone then jumped back onto the bed as though someone might crawl out from the dark depths of under it; the same way a fearful child would.  

 

The phone remained in clammy hand as eyes bore a hole in it. There was hesitation in his next movements and after wiggling until he was appeased, he flicked the phone open and stared at the screen, anticipation circling the depths of his stomach.  

 

 _Chuck_.  

 

Thankful that Chuck had taken the liberty to add his number beforehand, he brought the phone to his ear and, although being the one to accept the call, did not initiate the conversation. Instead, he waited with bated breath and a small hint of apprehension that was swiftly soothed when Chuck inquired, "Sam?" The man in question let out a relieved sigh, expecting the serial killer was testimony to his unwarranted paranoia, he thought chidingly. 

 

"Sorry, yeah?" He mumbled apologetically down the phone, rubbing a hand up his face and through his dishevelled hair.  

 

"This is a wakeup call Sam," Sympathy was evident in his stuttering speech, "A handful of agents are dropping by with your belongings from your old apartment and are going to take you to the temporary blacksite." Blunt nails scratched against coarse facial hair before the advisor continued, "They're still setting up a secure site." Was added dismissively; the taller man assumed that 'they' was synonymous with the FBI and that this was his life now.  

 

"Alright Chuck, thanks." He expressed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his eyes closed.  

 

"They should be around in about half an hour." Chuck supplied helpfully then added in a rushed tone, "Oh, I don't know if you've noticed but we left some more papers on your desk for you to read and sign. Don't worry, I gave them all a quick scan and nothing too ominous is there."  

 

Sam gave a vacant laugh in lieu of a groan. "I saw them Chuck, it's kinda hard not to considering how many there are." He did try a little to not sound irked but the other man picked up on the register and let out an equally devoid chuckle. 

 

 "I know it’s a lot Sam but it's all for  _your_ safety. That's our number one priority right now. We're gonna make sure that creep doesn't get anywhere near you." He declared, the last statement lacking the same official sound as the first two and more bravado than Sam could ever imagine the 5'6 guy having.  "Anyway, I gotta go and make sure everything is in order for your arrival."  

 

"Ok Chuck, I'll see you soon." 

 

The called ended with a click after a farewell statement was returned and Sam was left with 30 minutes to burn. After a moments consideration, he decided to procrastinate the effort of signing papers and instead take a shower. 

 

Slinking from the warmth of the bed, Sam begrudgingly made his way to the bathroom where he slipped out of his clothes and slung them over them over the toilet seat. The brunet let out a sleepy sigh when he twisted the faucet and warm water blasted from the showerhead like a waterfall. He focused on being pleased with the seemingly high water pressure as he pointedly avoided the mirror that was blooming with condensation before tugging his phone from the tangled mess of his clothes. It took only a moment for music to fill the room, mingling with the pounding of the water. Eventually, the gentle melody of piano gave way to a tender voice.   

 

 _I've been crawling up inside your lungs,_  

 _Feeling up your mind with my tongue._  

 _I didn't need to know but now I need to run,_  

 _Tonight, we roll, we lock, we lunge._  

 

Padding into the shower, Sam slid the door closed behind him and let out a prolonged exhale as water hammered against his skin and down his bare back; the heat was bordering on painful. Muscles contracted then relaxed at the sudden change in temperature and Sam momentarily felt his worries and struggles melt away with the water that gurgled defiantly before plunging down the drain. Long brown locks of hair plastered to his face while droplets trickled down his forehead; the house was baptising him, accepting him, welcoming him.  

 

 _I've been awake for deliverance,_  

 _Deliverance, deliver me._  

 

It was a considerable glob of apple-scented shampoo that Sam cupped in his hands but even as he massaged it into his head, delicate fingers could not scrub away the feeling under his skin. He felt exposed, despite the rising steam, as though he was being watched. He shambled uncomfortably in the enclosed area of the shower as soap trickled down his legs and a voice scolded him for being so paranoid, for being so foolish and making a mountain out of a molehill –  _as usual_.   

 

He spent the rest of the shower ruthlessly rubbing at his skin and head, hoping the brutal friction would slather some sense into him. After the end of the third song, Sam was out of the shower and nimbly drying himself off with the towel that had once hung from the shower's bannister.    
 

Sam dressed in the clothes he wore the night before; he would have to wait until people showed up with his belongings to wear something else. He paused the music mid-song and checked his phone to discover that he had wasted a meagre fifteen minutes before resolutely deciding he needed to tackle the mass of papers.    
 

Beads of water trickled down from his half-dry hair to the nape of his neck and ventured along his spine as he strode through his new apartment and settled into the uncomfortable office chair with a quiet moan. A hand groped and fingers curled around a thick stapled form as the brunet flicked a switch in his mind, turning on what he liked to call, lawyer-mode.    
 

The brisk rapping on his door dragged him out of his intense study of a form that was dictating what kind of information Sam would be expected to keep a secret – all of it – and he was out of the room and across the open living area to the front door in a few seconds. A hand was halfway to the doorknob before he hesitated and strained his neck to squint through the peephole in his apartment door. Through distorted glass, he saw an ensemble of suits looking severely disinterested. The breath that Sam didn't realise he had held, escaped soft pink lips as the hand finished its journey and twisted the knob. Composing himself, the brunet tried a polite smile to the agents at his door.    
   
"Mr. Winchester?" The strongly built agent stood front and centre-most with short cropped brown hair inquired in a neutral tone. It was a formality, they knew who he was.  

 

Running a hand through his hair to make himself look more presentable and feel less awkward, Sam replied. "Yeah, I'm guessing you're the guys here to take me to the blacksite." He let out a small laugh that sounded more like an exhale, "Take me to your leader."  _Idiot_.  

 

He had tried to break the awkward atmosphere but it was clear when the agent only titled his head owlishly that he had only made it worse. "My name is Gadreel, Mr. Winchester. I will be one of the agents stationed in the apartment next to yours to protect you." His words were pronounced with way too much seriousness for Sam's liking as he extended a hand in what looked like a stiff motion and the Winchester took it and gave a few sharp tugs with a moderate grip, grateful for the chance to redeem himself for the bad joke. The other brunet's grip was vice-like. "These men are here to deliver your possessions from your old apartment while I collect you and some papers to take to the site, yes." 

 

As though they had heard a trigger word, the indistinguishable agents simultaneously lifted cardboard boxes from the ground where they stood like marble. As they marched past him and into his apartment, Sam could discern scrawled writing that labelled the boxes. He followed the men into the living area and eyed them with a defensive posture as they placed his belongings in the middle of the room. Some stopped to take in their surroundings while others left silently, probably going to get more of his things and Sam was left feeling scrutinized.  

 

When all the boxes had been placed in the room, Sam was left feeling slightly underprivileged – everything he owned could be fit into a number of compact cardboard boxes that he could count on his two hands. It was embarrassing but it was also how he'd always lived his life. In truth, this was the most amount of stuff he could ever remember owning. As a result of the tragedy that befell the mother he can only reminisce of in a faded photograph neatly folded in his wallet, his callous cynical father had ordered them around the States in some paranoia-driven hunt for a desolate cause. In his rage and excessive alcohol consumption, John Eric Winchester had led himself to believe that someone – maybe even some _thing_  - had set their beloved family house ablaze and purposely ended the life of sweet and innocent Mary Sandra Winchester. John was as set as a stone statue in his plan to avenge his unjustly-killed wife and took his boys on an extended road trip, using his prior experience as a Marine to train his two sons to live off as little as possible. It was seldom that little Sammy had the opportunity to own something to himself (though he never truly had something of his own – not with a big brother who was allowed even less than him) but his father had occasionally indulged his youngest son in comic books. Sam still had those, corners curled, pages ripped and colour worn down with time but still his. 

 

He was pulled out of his musing by the rustle of pages and an ever-solemn ever-serious voice. "All the forms seem to be in correct order. Is there anything you wish to do before we depart, Mr. Winchester?" Gadreel asked and Sam only requested that he change clothes before he was escorted to the site.   

 

  

 **\--------------**  

 

 

Another black van with tinted windows drove Sam to the blacksite and he busied himself with texting his friends a vague explanation for his lack of attendance on campus and warning his boss that he probably wouldn't be in work for a few days. Sam had sighed and rubbed a clammy hand across his face, he had no idea how long this...  _Situation_  would last and how he'd ever been singled out. Why couldn't he just live a normal life?  

 

 _Only freaks like you deserve this kind of_ _shitstorm_. The voice was vulgar and spiteful. 

 

The packed van became all too hot by the time the brunet was released. Taking in a lungful of air, he stepped out to a cold concrete base. It was so blatantly hurriedly set up and temporary; an array of people in suits were busying around computer monitors and wires snaked the ground, taped down in a way that would give any safety advisor a stroke.  

 

Sam was struggling to comprehend all the activity until a small hand rested delicately on his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin, too absorbed in the inaudible mutterings and bodies that zoomed by to see the figure approach.  

 

Chuck smiled apologetically at Sam and the taller man inspected him. He still reeked of cheap whiskey but he had seemingly made an attempt to clean up his appearance – hair combed and beard trimmed, the advisor stood next to Sam wearing a creased grey blazer over a patterned olive shirt and a pair of dark jeans with dress shoes.  

 

"Hey, Sam." There was an attempt of cheeriness in his voice, "We've got about 20 minutes before the call." Dread thickened and churned in the Winchester's stomach at those words. "Any questions or concerns before I run you through how this is gonna go down?" 

 

Sam had an endless stream of questions – most of them centring around ' _why_ ' and ' _what the fuck_ ' - but trepidation trapped his queries and left his tongue dry. Instead, he shook his head and began to follow the smaller man when he started to walk, he felt like a lost puppy and was sure shuffling behind the heels of his new friend only added to the representation. They came to a halt outside a room all too similar to the one he had entered for the first conversation. Reluctance was evident in the way Sam squirmed from one foot to the other and, fortunately, Chuck picked up on the hesitation and the briefing began outside.  

 

The briefing lasted around five minutes and then he was guided into the room. The next fifteen minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly for Sam as he waited for the impending call; he was grateful for the uncomfortable metal chair as all feeling in his legs had been lost. Sweaty palms kept finding their way to his jeans from where he was white knuckling the table as he tried to avoid making his nervousness too obvious to Chuck, who hovered in the corner and offered him a surprising variety of sympathetic smiles. The room was thick with tension and heat. 

 

 _Breath in through the nose... 1_ _, 2, 3, 4._  

 _Christ, y_ _ou can't even breath right._  

 _Hold... 5, 6, 7._  

 _Nobody will want you here, you're useless._  

 _Breath out through the mouth... 8._  

 

The technique he was all too familiar with helped, distracted him even. Until the noise.  

 

There was a ' _cl_ _i_ _ck_ _'_ of the door behind which signalled everything was set up and prepared. With hands that trembled like a stubborn candle flame in the wind, Sam brought the infernal phone to his ear, breath caught behind clenched teeth.  

 

Silence held strong in the claustrophobic room but it only seemed to fuel his unease, dread settled low in the pits of his insides and it gnawed viciously at his patience. He parted his lips to speak – to try to emit some semblance of confidence – but the man on the other side of the phone beat him to it.  

 

"Sammy." The voice was warm with misplaced fondness but it sent chills across the receiver, his body was littered with goosebumps within seconds of the quiet being broken. The younger Winchester shuffled in his seat, the honest adoration that  _had_ to be for deception, regardless of how genuine it sounded.  

 

He would have been lost for words, were it not for the spark of anger that flickered in his gut at the corruption of his childhood nickname; he held onto that anger and used it as a catalyst for his response. "Don't call me Sammy." He hissed out, letting his agitation take centre stage in place of his fear, and studiously did not add ' _Nick_ ' as he may have liked.  

 

There was a pause before an affectionate sigh filled Sam's ears. "Alright, alright," He hummed apologetically before continuing, "How are you doing, Sam?" He urged with curiosity intertwined in a voice that just  _sounded_  like velvet.  

 

Sam was baffled. The guy was pretending to care, throwing on a façade of concern for his personal wellbeing, and the Winchester really didn't want to give him  _any_ information about himself. But after a questioning look at his advisor, followed by a confident nod, he divulged the information – for the simple reason that casual discourse worked in favour of tracking the bastard. "I'm fine. How are you?" The response was flat and had no hint of emotion in it, he wasn't going to pretend to care. 

 

The serial killer snorted inelegantly and Sam's brows knit together. "No point asking a question you  _really_ don't care for the answer to," He drawled while the other man struggled to hold back choking. So, blunt honesty is the tactic he's going for?  

 

There was the opportune moment to ask about the girl but a somewhat resentful form of interest struck deep within Sam and he couldn't resist asking, "Why do you care?"  

 

 _("One day, boy, that_ _curio_ _sity_ _of_ _your_ _s_ _is_ _gonna_ _get you killed!" John spat, face red and veins bulging out of his neck and forehead as his older brother stood, arms behind his back as his face contorted revealing_ _he was resisting_ _the urge to get involved_ _._ _)_  

 

"That's better," The man on the other end cooed approvingly and the brunet didn't realise it was possible to feel more nauseous. "Well, Samuel. I don't expect you to believe me – not yet. But I care for you, sincerely. I want to give you a gift, I want to give you everything. You and I are very much alike, Sam and you will come to see that - given time - but for now you should know that I will never lie to you, I will never trick you. You don't belong with those  _cockroaches_ , you belong with  _me_." 

 

Sam was pretty sure he blacked out halfway through the speech. Black spots bloomed and danced across his vision and he had to double over in the chair, convinced he was about to bring up whatever was left of his last meal from yesterday. The singular thing that stopped him from showing more weakness than he already had was Chuck's hand on his shoulder. Fingers curled tightly around his skin and he used it as an anchor to keep himself from drifting away from reality.  He actually brought his hand up and clung to Chuck's. 

 

"Ah, but let's not overwhelm you too much, hey?" Lucifer patronised, voice warm with fond humour. There was rustling, as though the man was moving to sit up, and Sam took the opportunity to collect himself as best he could before he heard the clearing of a throat. "You want to know where the girl is."  

 

"Yes." Sam stuttered out after a short squeeze on his shoulder by Chuck. That was all he could muster up, any chance of forming a coherent sentence was lost for a murderer with a Satan Complex had decided to stalk him.  

 

"What, no please? You really ought to work on your manners, Sam." The guy joked like the whole situation was just some teen prank.  _And you thought you were a psychopath_. 

 

"Cut the crap and tell us where the girl is, Lucifer." Sam grumbled through clenched teeth, sick to his stomach at the other man's attempts at casual discourse and painfully frustrated; he just wanted to go home, sleep and pretend his life wasn't utter shit for just a few hours.  

 

"That's what I'm talking about, Sam. Real interaction! I want to see the real Sam Winchester." Lucifer made no effort to hide his joy and the Winchester didn't think he could regret anything more than opening his mouth right then. "Conversations are a two-way street, ya know?"  

 

Sam couldn't believe he was receiving sass from a serial killer. "The girl, Lucifer." He said between clenched teeth and pointedly ignored the exasperated sigh that followed. 

 

"Fine, fine." The man on the other side of the phone grumbled and scratched absent-mindedly at the stubble on his chin. "But I'm not going to make this easy, that wouldn't be any fun." 

 

 _Great_. 

 

"Blood runs thick were justice makes its way." Lucifer's voice held something that sounded oddly like hope, along with the usual amount of smug amusement.  

 

Of course, God forbid they ever get a simple answer out of the guy. He'd even take one that was slightly less vague and creepy. Turns out, Sam was in a painfully cliché episode of NCIS. Opening his mouth and speaking words that were pronounced in English and not nonsense was gradually becoming easier as frustration slowly bloomed in place of anxiety. Despite this, he still struggled with what to reply. A tongue darted out to lick his lips as he contemplated what to say; what would be the most appropriate response. Unfortunately, Lucifer beat him to it. 

 

"Well, I can't have you finding me before you're ready." His voice sparkled with anticipation, he sounded hopeful and all too pleased with himself. "Take care, Sammy." The serial killer cooed genuinely before a click, followed by a tense silence. Sam hadn't even had a chance to keep him on the phone.  

 

The quiet was thick as Sam mulled over the entire conversation he'd had, though he knew he shouldn't. That hadn't been the first time Lucifer had spoken about Sam not being 'ready', the first time he had said that he would be the one to 'help' Sam. Help him how, exactly? It left him feeling more than a little unnerved. A long sigh pulled the Winchester from his musings and he glanced up to see Chuck, who was rubbing at his beard with a disappointed face. He hadn't even realised the advisor was no longer holding his shoulder. 

 

"I didn't get you enough time, did I?" Sam asked quietly, trying to hide his shame by looking at the phone in his hands. Guilt washed over him as he fiddled with the phone in his hands. All he had to do was keep the conversation going, yet, he had barely done any talking. He had only managed to let his emotions overwhelm him and cut the discourse short.  

 

 _You can't do anything right. People are going to die and it will all be your fault._  

 

"N-no, you didn’t get enough time." Chuck replied, trying not to sound disgruntled and upset. It didn't work. "But it's okay. I mean, we got a possible hint to where his next victim could be." He patted Sam's shoulder in a manner that was probably supposed to be a sign of solidarity but came across as awkward. "We couldn't have got that without you, Sam."  

 

The encouragement felt closer to patronising than supportive, like he had done wrong but the bearded man didn't want to depress him. Sam felt contempt towards himself as Chuck guided him out of the room, he took one last glance over his shoulder to stare emptily at the phone on the table before the door closed behind him. If he didn't feel as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders earlier, he certainly did now.  

 

He kept his gaze to the cold concrete floor as he followed Chuck, his shoes being just in his vision so he knew where to go. The whole room had gone silent, sans for the humming of hardworking computers and the echoing sound of Chuck and Sam's feet. The advisor stopped suddenly and that forced Sam to meet his eyes, which were filled with pity. He spoke softly, like he wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject, "Let's go meet the team you'll be working with." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! :)
> 
> I promisepromisepromise to try and actually update this on a schedule (probably once a month if I'm not completely braindead)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are massively appreciated! :D Constructive criticism would be wonderful too if you have any :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! - I'm a stickler for comments so let me know how you found it
> 
> I've had this in the works for a few months now and finally decided that I want to make something solid out of it. While I still have a few kinks to iron out (and in, if you get me ;)) I fully intend to see this through. I hope you chose to stick along for the ride :)
> 
> Now time to cry over 12x23 D':


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